by Sadie Sumner
Antoinette slid a folio from the bottom of the pile. “It’s not an exact science. Not yet anyway. But perhaps you’d like to see the next donor level?”
“There are levels?”
Antoinette smiled warmly. “Girls with higher education. Some with a Masters even. It's a little more expensive of course, but then it’s only natural to want the best for your child.”
“How much?”
“Around $10,000 per qualification.”
The hard sell was easy to recognize. Monica wondered for the first time what her bridal business was worth. Antoinette opened the folio. It was the same parade of young and attractive, only perhaps a little more polished.
“And this donation would be anonymous? She would never come looking for…?” Monica could not think of a word to describe a donor’s offspring.
“Of course. Totally anon, just a biological function after all, not a child to her. Not in any real sense of the word.”
“Could I have a minute alone?” Monica asked.
Antoinette picked up the cups. “It’s a difficult decision. And there’s no rush, now there’s no issue with that damn ticking bio clock.” She smiled like they shared a conspiracy.
The door closed silently behind her. Monica wandered around the room. Antoinette had dispensed with the promotional happy family snaps. The office was perfectly curated, with art photos of body parts, so tightly focused they lost all context. I must tell Gil, she thought. The smell in the room gave her a headache. She switched off the oil diffuser and picked up the silver frame from the doctor’s desk. Two large dogs sat on a picnic blanket in a summer garden with Antoinette kneeling between them, her arms around their necks. She looked happy.
The album lay open. Monica could not decide. Was she looking for a physical resemblance? Or warmth and kind eyes, something that told her the girl was selling her eggs for more than just money? She stopped on one with wavy hair so blonde it could have been white. The tips were dyed purple, and she stared straight down the lens, challenging anyone to question her.
Monica took the photo from its black corners and took it to the window, pulled back the curtain and held it to the light. She gazed into the girl’s eyes. They were gray-green and bright with possibility. She seemed confident and assured with a touch of vulnerability. Monica tried to picture a small child with such eyes and Gil’s floppy hair. With the girl’s straight teeth and Gil’s full mouth. And she wondered if there would be an attraction between them, in the real world. She imagined them meeting, sometime in the future, where they would marvel over the child they created as though somehow it were a natural thing.
When Antoinette returned, Monica was asleep in the chair, the picture in her hand. She woke suddenly with a gasp and looked around. The phantom baby had visited her in a dream and waved an admonishing finger and furrowed its tiny brow like it was old and wise.
Antoinette sat at her desk and realigned the photo of her dogs. “None of this is easy,” she leaned back in her chair, and Monica saw she was younger than she looked, her hair gone grey too soon.
“Do you have children?” Monica asked.
“I have dogs.” She smiled at the framed photo. “And cancer, hence the chemo hair. If I had a child now, I’d probably die before it was five.” She laughed in an empty way.
“Is that why you gave up practicing medicine?” Monica asked.
Antoinette nodded. “Too stressful,” she said. “And too many germs.”
For a moment it felt like they had shared something real. “I’m wondering, do you know of any studies on the difference between a love child and a science child?” Monica had not realized she’d been worrying about this. “Are they affected by being conceived in this way, do you think?”
Antoinette steepled her fingers. “I used to wonder that myself. But our commissioning parents adore their children. Love conquers all, so I doubt there’s any difference.” She indicated the photo albums. “Were you able to make a selection? Anyone take your fancy?” She was back in business mode.
Monica pointed to the girl with the dip-dyed hair. “I like her. She’s unique looking.”
Antoinette tapped a pen. “A lovely girl, from Saskatoon, if you can believe that.” She chuckled. “Well done. She has a bright future, that one, and a rather large student loan. She’ll be very pleased you chose her. If you are happy, we can get started on the paperwork.”
They signed a contract, and Monica paid a deposit. Outside, the air chilled the tip of her nose and the ends of her fingers. Winter had finally arrived in full force, and in less than an hour, everything about her life was changed, probably forever. What would she tell Gil? Could she explain that her plan had been simply to explore the possibility of a child, but now, almost inexplicably, it was set in motion? It occurred to her that this way it was somehow more natural, organic, like falling pregnant when you least expect it, just something that happens. She had always been able to convince him of anything, but this time it felt different. And she knew she was not up for the fight. That she would cave if he resisted her and that she would regret it all her life. She thought of the girl with the dip-dyed hair and for a moment, she felt an irrational joy. She saw herself as she took her daughter’s small hand and led her to Dotty’s grave marker and introduced them. “This is my child,” she would say. “This is my daughter.”
Ten
Kavitha drifted through the remains of her flat. There were a few things she could sell: her mother’s cherished mirror and Ria’s old textbooks. Arun had insisted Ria take business studies. His daughter had bargained and added women’s studies to her roster.
Kavitha stacked Ria’s books and a tract bound with staples and printed on rough paper fell out. It was a call to protest, to placard and shout outside a clinic. The room grew dark as she read the descriptions of exploited women and Kavitha wanted to wail at the injustice. But as she read she realized it was the answer to everything, hiding in plain sight, in her daughter’s room. She could send Ria away for the summer break, not even let her come home. There were cousins in the country that would take her, and by the next semester, she would have the money. She would go to the clinic the next day. And finally, she slept all night without waking.
The next morning Kavitha stood on the landing and looked for the clouds. But the day was blue with no sign of rain. She dressed in a work blouse and skirt and her old walking shoes.
She walked through the chaos of the streets by the Forum Shopping Mall. Auto rickshaws crowded the pavements, and she pushed past food vendors selling panta bhat and the curlicues of amriti, the sugar sweet her mother would make for special occasions. She wandered through billows of cooking smoke so dense with coriander, tamarind, mustard and chili that she began to cough; past stalls piled high with coconut-naru and sweetmeats. She stopped in front of a booth lined with traditional saris of every color. To Arun, they represented the past he so abhorred, but she ran her hand through drapes of silk shot through with gold and thought of her mother.
The mall was near the factory, and Kavitha knew it well. But today she did not recognize the landmarks. It felt like the city had forgotten her. When they were doing well, the filthy children, the ragged men on crutches, the half-starved women with babies tied to their backs, existed on the periphery of her vision, an organic part of the landscape. Now she caught their desperation, a virus that made her eyes ache and her skin crawl.
The clinic was near the market, not far from the best hotels, but in a less expensive area. Kavitha found herself carried there as if her feet knew more than she did. A small sign attached to the wall read ‘Planete Bebe’ in elegant English script with Bengali, Urdu and Hindi beneath.
Kavitha pushed open the door. Inside it was air-conditioned, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Since the factory had closed, she’d hardly felt the touch of cold air. She straightened her damp blouse and skirt.
A group of young women clustered in a corner with clipboards in their arms. They wore the traditional salwar kameez
rather than the uniform of jeans and t-shirts Ria and her friends favored.
No one heard her enter and Kavitha stood for a moment and listened to the conversation.
“We’re here to help women in need,” one girl said in provincial Hindi. The others nodded and made small noises of appreciation.
“Their children will go to university and make their families proud,” another said, and the group clapped.
Someone spied Kavitha. The cluster opened up and a woman in a white coat emerged. She was younger than Kavitha, shorter than all of them, austere with large dark-rimmed glasses, and her hair pulled into a tight bun.
“I’m Doctor Devi, can I help you?” she asked in Hindi, her voice bright and educated.
Kavitha nodded. She could not drag her eyes from a wall of framed photos of happy white couples clutching newborns.
“If you’ll just give me a moment.” The doctor picked up a pile of photocopied maps from a table. Each one showed areas highlighted in pink. She handed them to the girls. “Do well out there today. Remember, we are angels of change.”
The women clasped hands to hearts and bowed their heads to the doctor, took their clipboards and filed out into the street.
When they left, Kavitha introduced herself in her best English. Dr. Devi shook her hand, her grip as steady as a man’s. She indicated the upholstered window seat. Outside the street seethed with people. No one glanced in her direction, and Kavitha felt she was gradually dissolving.
The doctor sat next to her. “First, I’m assuming you’d prefer English?”
Kavitha smiled.
“Good. Now tell me, Mrs. Atwal, may I call you Kavitha?” she continued without stopping. “What brings you to Planete Bebe?”
Kavitha thought about telling her everything. But the doctor was so young, so clean and flawless, as if nothing ever got in her way.
The mess Arun had made of their lives felt almost entirely her fault. How could she not have known what he was doing? How could she have been so stupid?
“I can help you,” Kavitha said. “I can help…them,” she glanced towards the portraits on the wall and realized why they seemed so strange. They all had the same perfect teeth.
The doctor laced her fingers in her lap. “That is an excellent attitude Kavitha, very admirable. You do realize what we do here?”
“Of course.” Kavitha noticed the doctor’s feet did not quite touch the floor. “I have one daughter. I was very good at having her.”
Dr. Devi smiled. She had the same perfect teeth as the people in the photos. “And are you healthy?”
Kavitha felt her stomach grind. She had lost weight, and her clothes were loose. “I am,” she said. “I do not remember the last time I was ill.”
“Please, come through to my examination room. We can get you started with the forms and blood tests.” She slid from the seat and Kavitha followed her into a small side room with a wall of filing cabinets.
Dr. Devi explained their procedures. “We’ll draw blood and test for hepatitis and sexually transmitted diseases.” She looked over the top of her glasses. “I have to ask about your husband.”
Kavitha sighed. “There is nothing to ask. He is gone.”
“I see. Well, I am sorry. Can you tell me, have you had intercourse with anyone other than your husband?” She drew a small bird on the corner of the page as they talked.
Kavitha was shocked. “Never.” She wished she had a shawl against the frigid air. And she wondered if the doctor would mention the payments.
“I know this is not easy,” the doctor said. “We have to ask. I will also need a urine sample to test for drugs. I need to do a hysteroscopy and a pap smear. If you are keen to hurry this along, we could complete all these right now.”
Kavitha thought of how still her flat was and how there was nothing left for the dust to settle on. “Yes,” she said, “I am keen to hurry.”
“Good. We will do a pelvic examination, and I’ll place a tiny catheter inside your uterus. It will help us determine the direction and length of the uterine cavity before your treatment cycle.”
Kavitha’s mind emptied of everything. She followed the doctor to a room with an examining table and a hand basin. There was nowhere to sit except the table.
The doctor gave her a gown and turned her back while Kavitha changed. Kavitha lay on the examining table and closed her eyes and tried to remember the first time she met Arun. He’d knocked tentatively on their door and her mother brought him into the kitchen and sat him at the table, where she had prepared all her best dishes. He ate out of courtesy while Kavitha sat across from him with her head bowed so that she saw only his hands, with their long fingers and perfectly shaped nails.
Dr. Devi pulled off her gloves. “I can offer you US$5000.” She washed her hands. “You have a small uterine abnormality, nothing major. But just in case, we can’t offer you the full amount.” She waited while Kavitha finished dressing. “But don’t worry, everything will be perfect. Go home, eat well, we’ll call when we have a match.”
Outside the clinic, Kavitha tried to cross the road. A scooter honked at her, and an auto rickshaw driver yelled. She jumped back to the curb. She had negotiated traffic all her life and had never stepped out without looking. It was as though she was inside someone else’s life. She stood under a plane tree and touched the gray bark and longed for the clean desk in her tidy office at the front of the clothing factory.
She hailed an auto rickshaw and felt guilty for the expense. “Park Street,” she said in Hindi and closed her eyes as he steered her effortlessly through the traffic. She got out at the corner of South Park Cemetery and tipped him. Not enough but it was all she had, and he grumbled as he pulled back into the traffic.
The huge trees and bushes of the cemetery closed around her. She wandered in the long shadows where the noise of the city grew faint. Moss covered everything. Around her, imposing grave markers of pyramids, obelisks and pavilions faded in the polluted air and crumbled beneath the weight of nature. The dead are feeding the trees, she thought, and the leaves whispered in the breeze, and she wondered if she too would have such an afterlife.
On Short Street the traffic was surprisingly calm and she found her way to the pond at Nature Study Park. The water was green and odorous, and she sat beneath a palm and slipped off her shoes.
The pond calmed her, and she remembered when Arun drove them to the Hooghly River. The water flowed dark in parts, blue or green in others, from the foul wastewater of nearby tanneries. They ignored the smell as they walked through the park and along the busy banks until they finally found a quiet spot. There they made a tent with sheets and offered puja and sung together, with Ria between them. And she remembered an overwhelming happiness as Ria lit the wicks soaked in ghee and offered them to the deities in thanks for her acceptance into the university.
He was stealing then, right then, when he touched my hand, and we shared our pride, she thought. The idea caught in her throat. “I will not cry,” she said to a spotted dove that landed near her feet.
She walked on and found herself on Camac Street. The flat was in the opposite direction, and she was unsure how she had gotten here. The windows of the up-market stores shone from hourly polishing, and the horns of the cars and the bells of the auto-rickshaws were deafening. The air was hard to breathe, but she could not tear herself away from the windows. Two months ago she would have walked right in, confident in her smart suit, even though she could not afford to shop there. Now she was afraid. She caught sight of her reflection and saw herself, as others must. Her hair was out of place, her blouse stained with sweat, her shoes scuffed and dirty; stranger’s clothes.
The sky draped itself over the hot and sticky city, and her feet turned to blisters, but she kept walking. It was late when she finally returned home. She had not eaten all day, and she stood next to the hand cart where once she parked her car. “This used to be my park,” she said to the wiry man. He smiled and offered her a cone of the crisp fried potatoe
s. “In return for the rent,” he said, and she took the food gratefully and looked up into the darkened window of her flat.
Eleven
Monica struggled to hold tree pose. The room was too hot, even for hot yoga. It seemed impossible to balance on one foot, no matter how much she grounded herself or breathed in time with the instructor or stared at a single, unmoving point. She checked her position in the mirrored wall again, and there was Antoinette, across the room. Monica waved and rolled up her mat and excused her way through the thicket of wobbling tree poses to a small gap next to her.
“Would you mind?” she whispered to a pregnant woman. The woman sighed and moved her mat to make room for Monica.
“Hi Antoinette,” Monica said and resumed the pose. Antoinette inclined her head, and Monica noticed her tree foot was rock steady.
“Are we settled now?” the instructor asked, and Monica gave her best fake smile and whispered to Antoinette. “Have you noticed how everyone is pregnant? Like, literally. Everywhere you look there’s a belly staring right at you.”
Antoinette’s tree foot shook a little. “We’ll talk later,” she put a finger to her lips.
Monica placed her feet and spread her arms for warrior pose and turned towards the mirror. She breathed deeply to find her core and followed the instructor. On the downward dog, she glanced over to the pregnant woman. Her top rose, and her belly hung from her toned body, blue-veined and over-ripe. Despite the heat, Monica felt cold.
Back at her office, the sky darkened through the glass roof. She walked fast on the treadmill, caught in a trance. When Rufus arrived, she startled, like she’d been caught napping.
“Slow down,” he said.
Sweat formed along her spine, and Monica realized she was walking very fast.
“We have the new fabrics coming tomorrow for the spring summer collection. I’ve booked a team meeting to view and discuss,” Rufus said.
Monica turned off the treadmill. “I’m worried about Gil.”
